


Wherever We Go

by leaveanote



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Declarations Of Love, Dorks in Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Hurt Crowley, Love Confessions, M/M, One Shot, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 15:31:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19337377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leaveanote/pseuds/leaveanote
Summary: It’s been one week since the world didn’t end, and Crowley is going out of his mind. He needs to just tell Aziraphale how he feels, but when something's gone unspoken for this long, no words feel good enough. Eventually, he can't take it anymore, and asks Aziraphale to walk with him in St. James Park. Absolute ineffable fluff.





	Wherever We Go

It’s been one week since the world didn’t end, and Crowley is going out of his mind. 

They haven’t really discussed what they’re going to do moving forward, the absence of an apocalypse to forestall has taken some getting used to. Aziraphale’s been busy setting his bookstore to rights since Adam’s rudimentary restoration, miracling the tomes back to their correct locations and making a list of all the volumes the anti-anti-Christ hadn’t deemed interesting enough to resurrect. Crowley’s been helping, which is to say drinking profusely, miracling certain shelves to rights when the angel’s not looking, and steadying the ladder Aziraphale would be quite prone to toppling over, and him with it, with a secret crook of his finger.

Exactly one week has passed and Crowley’s had enough of Aziraphale’s wine and enough of the burgeoning, aching pressure inside him. He’s leaning in one of Aziraphale’s armchairs, one leg flung over the armrest and an elbow over the back of it, and before he can think better of it, he places the bottle on the floor and says:

“You want to get some air, angel?”

Aziraphale turns from where he’s been crouching by his freshly revitalized Sappho collection. Crowley can tell he’s loath to leave before he’s finished ensuring all the poems are in their proper condition and arranged by Aziraphale’s most to least favorite, but he can’t take it anymore. He swings his leg over and pushes up on his knees, standing. 

“I rather thought I would -- ” Aziraphale starts wistfully, glancing at the shelf, but he catches a glimpse of Crowley’s face. He must look more distressed than he thinks he does, because Aziraphale hurriedly continues: “no matter, I can always finish it later.”

“I thought we could head to St. James Park,” Crowley says, trying to sound nonchalant. He swings his jacket over his shoulders and stuffs his hands in the pockets, willing his infernal blush to fade. 

“Why not!” Aziraphale is obviously trying to sound chipper, but it’s clear he has no idea why he’s being pulled away from the bookshop.

The late afternoon is clear and unusually pleasant. Crowley watches through his glasses as Aziraphale locks up the shop and takes a deep breath of the city air. He knows the angel loves it, all of it, the grime and the sweat and the sky and the Thames, all wonderfully earthly and a miracle in and of itself.

“What?” Aziraphale raises an eyebrow at him, catching Crowley staring. 

Crowley feels his heart pounding in his chest. Stupid human form, with its obvious tells. He doesn’t say anything, only begins loping toward the park. 

He has a horrible suspicion Aziraphale already knows, which is embarrassing enough, but he wishes the angel would just say it already and spare him the need to actually get up the courage to say it. Of course, Aziraphale wouldn’t impose or assume like that.

Of course he bloody well wouldn’t.

The angel, meanwhile, is walking through London with absolute love in his gaze, for the cafes and the couples and the children, for the very pigeons that strut the streets. It’s oddly not infuriating, because it’s so damned genuine. Aziraphale actually understands that all of these small mundane moments make a world that’s...well, Crowley has learned, miraculous. 

It feels so good, walking together. It always has, though it’s just gotten better and better through the centuries as Crowley’s become more confident that Aziraphale’s not going to actually thwart one thing about him. There’s an energy between them that’s only grown stronger, more undeniable. An angel and a demon, yes, but both of them are a bit of something else now, too. How can they be opposing forces when they’re so often moving in the same direction, when it feels so good to walk together? They’ve changed each other, and Crowley...doesn’t want to ever go back. 

They arrive at the park. The trees yawn across their favorite bridge, overlooking the duck pond. The sun has nearly set now, casting the entirety of the park in a warm, golden glow. Crowley feels Aziraphale strengthen the roots of the trees and ripen the soil, almost automatically.

“What are you going to do now?” Crowley asks. He keeps his voice low, but it still comes out hoarse.

“I figure tomorrow I can wrap up Sappho, then move onto the Pacific Island poets — “

“I mean, in general,” Crowley interrupts, leaning over the bridge. He can see their wings reflected in the water, nearly brushing. 

“I suppose I’ll keep performing miracles,” Aziraphale says, matter of factly.

“For those monsters who wanted you dead?!” Crowley asks in disbelief.

“No,” says Aziraphale indignantly. “Because I like to. I like to make things better, for humans and animals and everything on this planet, and you should know that, since we just saved it together.” 

Crowley plants his elbows on the railing and drops his head into them, groaning. The alcohol had worn off a bit on the walk, but he shakes his head and sobers up entirely. This isn’t working, probably because he isn’t sure exactly what he’s trying to say yet. What he’s willing to admit.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale places a gentle hand on the demon’s shoulder. “Please tell me what’s going on.” 

Crowley swallows, hard, and turns to face him. Aziraphale’s earnest expression takes all the fight out of him.

“I liked getting dinner with you,” he says, his voice low. “At the Ritz, but I always have. Ever since the oysters.”

Aziraphale’s brows furrow.

“I like it too, Crowley. Are you...hungry?”

“No,” Crowley groans, his head in his hands again. He removed his glasses, massaging his temple. It shouldn’t be this hard. But when something’s gone unspoken for this long, no words seem right. He is, however, finally determined to try. “I like being with you, all right? Not just the balancing each other out, not just figuring out how to outsmart heaven or hell or armageddon, but being around you. Always have, but when I found the bookshop in flames, when I thought I’d lost you...” Crowley clenches his fists. That moment had done it, when he thought Aziraphale was gone forever. “It nearly destroyed me, all right? It very nearly did.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes widen, as he takes in just how seriously Crowley means it.

”I know we’re not supposed to work so well together,” Crowley continues, “but we do, don’t we? I know we’re an angel and a demon,” and he can’t help himself from biting off the words a bit, still stinging from when Aziraphale insisted they weren’t friends, and he feels a small, sorry pang of pleasure that the angel flinches at it. “But I only fell because I was asking questions that should have been asked. I was never satisfied, though, it was never enough. And you, Aziraphale, you’re so far from fallen — you’re better than all of us. God knows you’re better than me. Satan too, for that matter. But when I’m with you...” Crowley has never experienced this before, the strange coursing of adrenaline, like his whole being is on the brink of something. There’s never been anything he can’t come back from but this, this is the only thing that matters and there’s no way back from here. “When I’m with you, it’s enough.”

Aziraphale’s mouth has fallen open slightly, and Crowley is gripped with the freezing terror that once again, Aziraphale is about to turn him down, to say he’s going too fast. But he’s done his waiting.

“I don’t want to do this without you, Watching how you watch the world, the way you see everything as a goddamn blessing” — here Aziraphale flinches again, but more out of habit than anything — “I like it, okay? I...I like myself when I’m with you, angel.”

And here it is. The moment he’s never thought would actually arrive, that he didn’t dare to hope for, and even now he’s sure he’s made a mistake, but —

“I like myself when I’m with you too, Crowley.” 

Aziraphale’s voice does not waver. He’s staring unflinchingly into Crowley’s eyes, he knows what he’s said, the cosmic rule he’s just breached.

“So — so — would you consider — “ Just get the words out, Anthony, don’t be a coward now. “Wherever you go to do miracles. Can I be there too?”

Aziraphale tilts his head, awfully cutely.

“I should hope so, I haven’t found a way to be rid of you yet.”

Crowley has had enough. His glasses drop to the ground as he seizes Aziraphale’s lapels.

“Angel,” he murmurs through gritted teeth. “I am trying to tell you something here.” 

Aziraphale looks into his eyes searchingly for just a moment before Crowley feels the angel’s hands reach beneath his jacket, circling his waist and pulling him closer. Crowley’s heart begins to pound as he releases the lapels and lets his hands fall to Aziraphale’s shoulders, instead. 

“Say it, Crowley,” and the way Aziraphale says his name, both like it’s a precious thing and with his voice rough with what Crowley recognizes, awe-stricken, as something wonderfully close to desire, Crowley realizes the bastard does, in fact, know what he’s going to say. 

“I love you, angel.” 

For a moment, the world crashes to a halt. Time stops, the stars brighten, the seas rise and the grass in St James Park begins to sing a strange, haunting melody.

In the next moment, everything is back to normal, except Crowley is being thoroughly kissed by one gleeful angel and nothing will ever be quite the same again.

He gathers Aziraphale in his arms and returns the passion with tenderness, reveling in the strange human ritual of a kiss and acknowledging, as Aziraphale presses their bodies together, that there is something very holy about it, after all.

“I love you too, you wily thing, you.” 

Crowley’s grateful for the set sun, but he knows the angel sees him blush anyway.

“You’ll stay with me, then?” he asks when they part for breath again, running his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair. 

Aziraphale traces his hand over Crowley’s jaw, his throat, down to his chest, and Crowley realizes his entire body is in a sort of state of overwrought thrill, to be wanted back like this, to be seen, to be known.

“Wherever we go,” Aziraphale says softly, “we go together.”


End file.
